Vicious Rumer

by Joshua Winning

  And still I saved her. I dragged her down when the bullet snapped at her, and I drove us to freedom, patched her up, cleaned her wound, wrapped her up to sleep, like she was a harmless old lady.

  Horror movie shadows twitch across the ceiling. I watch them for a while, imagining they’re creating a network of secrets, each connected to the next, like the photos and articles pasted on the wall.

  There’s no way I can sleep. Somebody’s jammed chopsticks into my skull and given its contents a whisk. My eyelids itch like they’re plastered with sand, but I can’t relax.

  The house creaks and I think I hear something. Maybe just the wind. Quietly, I go through the house with the camp light, checking each room, making sure it’s as secure as a derelict house can be. I close all the doors, then I return to the Dead Room. Cocooning myself in the sleeping bag, I rest my back to the wall and wait for morning.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  My eyes snap open. I feel like I only closed them for a second, but now daylight’s struggling through the gaps in the boarded-up window and I can’t remember where the night went. I’m still propped up against the wall, wrapped in the sleeping bag. I wince as I stretch my legs out, then notice a thin figure standing across the room.

  Celene looks as beaten and bruised as I feel, though she’s the one who was shot, so she wins. She has a hand to her shoulder and she’s peering at the clippings on the wall. I can’t see her face. Is she wearing the same inscrutable expression she always does? Or has the wall undone it somehow?

  Her head turns slightly as my movements rustle the sleeping bag, but she doesn’t face me.

  ‘This all seems so long ago.’ Her voice is husky with pain and exhaustion. ‘You really must think I’m a monster.’

  I can’t deny that; I did, for the longest time, and I’m still not sure I think otherwise. Just because she seems different doesn’t mean she is. She’s still the person who committed all those atrocities in the nineties. Death followed her, just like it follows me. The only way I can stop it is by killing Mara and – if Dominic was right – my mother. A chill prickles through me.

  ‘What’s it like? Killing somebody?’ I ask.

  Celene contemplates the wall. ‘I’m not comfortable talking about that.’

  ‘Because you feel guilty.’

  ‘Because I don’t consider myself to be the same person who did those things.’

  ‘But you are.’

  ‘It’s not as easy as that.’

  Not for the first time, I wonder what it would take to push her over the edge. Make her lose her temper.

  ‘Don’t you ever think about the things you did? How many people died?’

  Celene doesn’t reply and I think maybe we’re done talking about that, but then she murmurs something so quietly I lean forward to hear.

  ‘I was an angry person then. I hated everybody. The people I killed, I didn’t see them as people. They were a job and hurting them felt good. I suppose I wanted them to suffer the way I had.’

  She doesn’t explain what she means by that. How she suffered, if she really did, and I’m not sure I want to hear about it. It’ll sound like lies anyway. Like her trying to explain away the terrible things she did. How she’s the real victim. Yeah right.

  The articles on the wall stare at me. Stories of wanton slaughter. On one occasion, she killed teenagers, but most of her victims were criminals, people who knew exactly what they were getting into by allying themselves with mobsters.

  ‘Seems to me a lot of them deserved it,’ I say.

  ‘No. They didn’t.’

  I remember what Frances said to me when she first showed me the derelict house I spent the first four years of my life in.

  It’s important for a person to know where they come from.

  Even if they come from the worst place possible.

  Especially then.

  My past is standing in the room with me.

  Has Celene accepted hers? Or is it a tug of war inside her? Does the guilt hit her in waves, late at night, ice water rushing into her mouth so she chokes? Can’t breathe? Begs for mercy?

  ‘You knew where I was,’ I murmur.

  Celene turns and looks at me. Ashen and slightly bent over, like somebody’s hollowed her out. Her hand absent-mindedly goes to her wounded shoulder. At her questioning look, I drag the photo album across the floor.

  ‘I should’ve guessed you’d find it,’ she murmurs.

  ‘You took all these. Some are from when I was a kid.’ I try to keep my voice level but the stew of confused emotions keeps threatening to bubble over. ‘You’ve known where I was my whole life.’

  ‘There’s a–’

  ‘It looks like stalking. And fear. And not wanting to accept responsibility for anything.’

  I can’t tell if I’m just imagining Celene swaying slightly, as if my accusation has rushed at her in a gust that her weakened state can’t withstand.

  ‘Imagine if I had approached you,’ she says wearily. ‘Just imagine if I had done that when you had this… view of me.’

  My gaze switches to the wall behind her and I hate myself for understanding where she’s coming from, at least a little bit. If she’d approached me out of the blue when I was younger, I don’t know how I’d have reacted. Probably with my fists. Somebody would’ve called the police. Troll would’ve attempted to tackle her to the ground and then he’d have ended up even worse off than he did anyway.

  ‘It would’ve been suicide,’ I say.

  Celene doesn’t say anything, though she could gloat over the fact that she’s right. It sort of annoys me that she doesn’t.

  ‘By the time I found you, you were already with a foster family. I hoped you’d be happy, have a good life, be raised by decent people.’

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘I couldn’t interfere. I lost any right to you the moment I left you. You stopped being mine.’

  Would she be proud of the shard of ice in me that she created, despite her absence? The spider in my mind whispering and watching and constantly looking out for danger?

  Celene trails over to her sleeping bag and slides to the ground, still clutching her shoulder. She grimaces, going even greyer than before, but she doesn’t say anything about the pain. She nudges the album with her boot, then grabs it and picks it up, turning to the first page.

  ‘Your past is a part of you. Always and forever.’

  I want to ask if she regrets leaving me, missing out on knowing me, always keeping her distance, but the words get trapped in my throat and I can’t find a way to release them.

  ‘I tried outrunning mine,’ Celene continues, staring down at the album. ‘I tried hiding. Now I have to tackle it head on.’ She pauses. ‘It won’t be enough. I’ll never escape my past, not until it chases me down and buries me in the dirt.’

  Does she have the same nightmare as me? Soil cramming into her mouth?

  There are no comforting words and I’m not sure she deserves any.

  Celene reaches into her pocket and pulls out a phone.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘If Frank’s alive, he’ll have tried to contact me.’ She slips the phone back into her pocket. No Frank.

  ‘So it’s just us,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘What time does the party kick off at Vinter’s?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Which gives us a couple of hours to get ready. Come up with a plan. Make ourselves pretty.’

  ‘You’re not coming, Rumer.’

  I don’t say anything. Instead, I sidle up to her and squeeze her injured shoulder. She flinches.

  ‘Oh yeah, taking down Mara and his men is easy when you’re in such good shape.’

  Her gaze burns into me but she knows I’m right.

  ‘You won’t get past the front door without an invite,’ she says.

  ‘I’m not going as a guest.’ I’ve been thinking about this ever since she told me about the party. I’ve never been to anything like it, but I’ve seen enough movies
to know how these things work. Big parties like Vinter’s require a lot of people. Decorators, chefs, waiters. Luckily, I’m pretty good at being invisible.‘Vinter’s place is airtight. You won’t make it over the garden wall.’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘And even if you get in, somebody will notice. Mara definitely will.’

  ‘Which is why I’m not going anywhere near Mara. I’ll be in the back, watching, ready to help you.’

  ‘And just how are you planning on getting inside?’

  ‘Leave that to me.’

  Celene’s gaze doesn’t break from mine. I’m not asking her permission. I’m offering her a plan she hasn’t considered. And she can’t stop me going. If she says no, I’ll go anyway, and then she’ll have no control over me whatsoever.

  She probably already suspects that.

  And she’s right. I’m going to that party but I won’t be hiding out back.

  I’ll be searching Vinter’s for the Crook Spear.

  Then I’ll use it to get Bolt back.

  Part Five

  THE CROOK SPEAR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Wind howls across the open road, whipping my hair into my face so I have to keep raking it back behind my ears. I lean against the car bonnet and drag on a cigarette. All part of the show. It’s freezing, but that’s okay. I’m not against playing on somebody’s sympathies, especially when that somebody can get me into Vinter’s mansion.

  The car bonnet’s cracked open so it seems to be mid-gasp, steam puffing out. I’ve fried the motor out here in the middle of nowhere. Vinter lives north of the city, on the way to Colchester, and there’s only one road that leads to his place. Across the field I see the motorway full of weekend traffic and wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

  My watch says it’s gone midday but the light’s so grey it could be early evening. I tug at the collar of the shirt. It itches like it’s got built-in barbs and I feel like an idiot standing out here. I’m all in black. All the better to shadow in. Black shirt. Black skirt. Black tights.

  I can wear this to Mara’s funeral. Hey, I feel better already.

  My mind drifts back to Celene. I used the last of Julian’s money to go clothes shopping and I picked up a cheap suit for her, too. Dark, to hide the shoulder wound if it bleeds. The state she was in, though – ash grey, eyes barely open – makes me doubt she’ll make it to Vinter’s. She has to, though. The plan doesn’t work without her. She has a bullet in her shoulder but she’s been planning this for months, and I’m pretty sure she won’t pass up her chance to confront Mara, send him the way she sent his father, even if it means getting herself killed in the process.

  Does she really believe killing Mara will change anything? Cutting off the snake’s head usually just creates more. I think of her expression when she said they won’t stop coming after her until she’s dead. So certain. Her eyes stark smudges.

  A vehicle appears on the horizon and I watch as it races closer, anticipation fraying into annoyance when it turns out to be an old van that can’t possibly be heading for Vinter’s. I’ve been here for three hours and I’m starting to worry nobody useful is going to come along. I need a rich idiot to take pity on me and get me into the party.

  When the driver of the approaching van spots me, he begins to slow down but I wave him on, growing bored, a headache splitting my nerves one at a time. He’s the fifth person to think about helping me – being a lone girl in this wasteland has its benefits – but I’ve moved them all on, frustration causing the spider in my mind to thrash.

  Each hour that crawls by is a special kind of torture. It gives me time to get nervous. My plan doesn’t kick in until I’m inside Vinter’s. And even then, any part of it could fail at any moment. If nobody picks me up I won’t even get past the front gates.

  Even if I manage to trick somebody into giving me a lift there, who’s to say they’ll let me in? I wish I’d had more time in the portacabin to study the operation. I could have forged an invitation by copying Celene’s or at least got enough intel to blab my way past security.

  A pair of headlights appears on the horizon. I toss the cigarette to the tarmac, stub it out with my boot. The headlights draw nearer and my heart raps against my ribcage. Another van.

  As it approaches I see what looks like a chef’s hat painted on the bonnet.

  It’s a catering van.

  This road goes right past Vinter’s, so there’s a tiny chance this is the company he’s hired to cater the party. This could be my ticket. I step away from the car and throw my arm out.

  The van doesn’t slow down.

  I wave my arm, then put both arms above my head, striding out into the road, the van’s engine growing louder and louder until it’s a roar fighting the howl of the wind, and then the van shoots by.

  ‘HEY!’

  I whirl around, ready to spit. My only way into Vinter’s gone in a blast of exhaust smoke.

  Then the van’s tail lights flash red and it eases over to the side of the road. My hair flapping in my face, I give myself a silent high five and hurry over to the passenger window as it winds down.

  A twentysomething girl leans across from the driver’s seat. There’s a spray of freckles across her nose and her strawberry blonde hair’s pulled back into a ponytail. For a second, I think it’s my foster sister Pearl. She looks just like those girls who tried to destroy me as a teenager. Joke’s on them – now I know exactly how they think.

  ‘Didn’t see you there. You got car trouble?’ she asks, and she even sounds like Pearl.

  ‘Piece of shit’s been threatening to die for weeks. Typical it does it just when I need to get to a job. My boyfriend will kill me if I have to call him out here.’

  ‘Job? Where you headed?’

  ‘The Vinter place. I’d walk it but–’

  ‘Are you with Sophie?’

  Thanks for the intel, I think, registering the way her nose crinkles at the name, the way it might when you’re talking about somebody you hate.

  ‘She’s only my favourite person in the world,’ I say in a tone that could either be interpreted as super friendly or unbelievably sarcastic.

  ‘Any enemy of Sophie’s is a friend of mine. I’m heading to the Vinter place. Hop in.’

  I could kiss her.

  ‘You’re fucking kidding. That’s insane. Thanks.’

  I’m already opening the door, not giving her a second to change her mind, and then I’m inside the van that’s going to get me into Vinter’s, but I don’t feel triumphant, because suddenly I realise this might actually work.

  My crazy plan is actually going to work.

  And when I come out, I’ll have killed somebody for real.

  My chauffeur flicks the radio, filling the cab with shrieky pop shit. ‘You need to make a call?’

  ‘What?’ I can barely hear her over the music.

  She turns it down a little. ‘About the car. Do you need to call AA or something?’

  ‘Already did, thanks. They should be coming to tow it away this afternoon.’

  ‘Cool. What’s your name? You’re new, right?’

  ‘Jaime,’ I say. ‘Yeah, new. I get the feeling Sophie’s staff don’t stick around long.’

  ‘You’re telling me. I’m only sticking it out until college. I’m Lily, by the way.’

  Of course you fucking are.

  Memories nettle through me. Pearl yelling. Her coven giving me a shared, stinging stare across the school courtyard. Lola calling me ‘Oddzilla’ and ‘Tumour’ and a hundred other things so horrible they left lifelong scars.

  I push the memories away and force a smile.

  ‘What’s the deal with this Vinter guy? He rich?’

  Lily’s eyes saucer. ‘Oh God, don’t go there. He’s not one of those James Bond billionaires. He’s super paranoid about anybody who shows him any interest. I mean, not that you’re not pretty–’ Her eyes flick over me briefly and it’s obvious she’s lying.

  ‘Rich guys are boring,’ I
say, rescuing her from the hole she’s digging. ‘I’ve always been more into the hot jocks. Give me a man with biceps the size of my thighs and I’m happy.’

  I count the lies as they come out, building a picture of Jaime in my head. She’s an art school dropout who thought about studying at law school but then she remembered lawyers are all assholes. She actually quite likes waitressing but only because it funds her art.

  Lives alone, but her sister’s on the same street.

  She’s a cat person.

  Loves TV shows about rich teenagers.

  Lily’s saying something about how much she loves jocks, but not the meatheaded ones who go out on a Friday night and drink so much they end up fighting in the street. She likes the sensitive meatheads. You know, the ones who read poetry and can do electrical stuff around the house.

  I fight the impulse to throw myself out of the moving van.

  Keep it together. Having to share a ride with Lily is nothing compared to what I’m going to have to do this evening. I should be embracing the distraction but all I want is to sit quietly and go over the plan again and again until I know it by heart.

  Vinter’s profile was pretty straightforward. Inherited his fortune from his mother, a Swedish sculptor whose creations sold for millions all over the world. He collects art and seems to spend most of his time investing in theatre projects. Which, let’s face it, means he’s probably not interested in female attention. Works for me.

  Lily’s stopped talking and I notice she’s looking at me.

  ‘Sorry?’ I say.

  ‘I asked if you’ve been doing this for long?’

  Infiltrating a rich guy’s home to steal a cursed artefact I intend to kill with?

  ‘No. A few months. I’m bricking it to be honest.’

  Lily waves a hand. ‘Just stay out of Sophie’s way and you’ll be fine. Oh and there’ll be so much champagne, they won’t even notice we’ve hidden a few bottles out back for after. Perk of the job, right?’